


Unmastered Death

by wrennette



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Highlander - All Media Types
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Death!Methos, I swear I mixed tenses on purpose, Methos is going to ruin your day, The Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Eldest feels a pull, and suddenly he is elsewhere. The forest is young, and so is the boy holding the stone. He feels the wand in the distance, and he smiles. Over time, his toys have taken on other meaning, and it is said that the man who holds all three Masters Death. As if he would leave a way he could be subjected to another’s will. </p>
<p>Inspired by the variations of Primordial!Methos that wild wolf free has graced fandom with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmastered Death

**Author's Note:**

> Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling, and Highlander belongs to Davis-Panzer. Author makes no profit.

The Eldest feels a _pull_ , and suddenly he is elsewhere. The forest is young, and so is the boy holding the stone. He feels the wand in the distance, and he smiles. Over time, his toys have taken on other meaning, and it is said that the man who holds all three Masters Death. As if he would leave a way he could be subjected to another’s will. The Eldest scoffs softly, and takes a closer look at the boy holding the stone. 

“I - I thought I was calling my mother, my parents,” the boy said, trying to mask his fear and uncertainty. 

“You meddle with things beyond your control,” the Eldest says gently. “Those old toys are of little use to me any longer, a diversion I have long grown bored of.”

“Death?” the boy asked, and the Eldest dipped his head in silent acknowledgement. The boy drew himself up, looked him square in the eye with more courage than many a grown man he has come for. “I am going to die soon. You may as well walk with me. I - will I see them soon? My parents?” The Eldest felt his heart soften slightly. Millions live and die in each breath he takes, but the Eldest has always had a respect for those like this boy.

“I imagine you will,” Death says. “But I do not know what comes next, since I do not, myself, leave the mortal realm.” The boy nodded, then turned towards the distant shouting. 

“Then I will see them soon,” the boy says. The Eldest nods, seeing the hand of Fate on the child. Strands of destiny are unspooling all around them, and the Eldest can feel the world weaving and unweaving itself with every breath the boy takes. Death has come for a purpose. The boy turns, walking steadily deeper into the forest. The Eldest follows at his shoulder, seeing the fear the boy tries to hide, the desperate hope even more deeply buried. A sacrifice of this nature is the remaking of the world, as it always has been. 

Entering the circle of firelight, no one notices the Eldest at first. It is a trick he has long ago perfected, when this world was still young and fresh and bubbling with possibility. The Dark Lord taunts, and the boy answers. The Dark Lord curses, and the boy falls. Death steps forward. Strands of life and magic coalesce and shimmer and dissipate with every breath the Eldest takes.

“Who are you?!” the Dark Lord demands, and the Eldest smirks. 

“Me?” the Eldest drawls in a lazy, disinterested fashion. His smile is that of a wolf or a shark. There seem to be too many teeth in his mouth. “I am your shadow, infant. I am he whom you have fled so long.” With that, the Eldest produces a sword. It is not a fancy weapon, but it states his intentions well enough, and in a fashion that even these inbred idiots cannot misunderstand. 

The Eldest strides forward, and magelight sparks towards him from all sides. It doesn’t touch him. The Eldest throws back his head and laughs, his innocuous muggle style clothing shifting around him until he wears a skin kilt and moulded leather greaves, a wolf's pelt over his shoulders and leather bracers on his forearms. His smile grows broader and yet more dangerous, the spells bouncing off him and striking back at the casters, their magic turning against them. 

Panting on the forest floor, the boy, so very young and so very alive, watches in wonder. The Eldest swings his sword twice, and the Dark Lord and his serpent familiar both fall dead.


End file.
